


Life Itself

by bonafake



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, F/F, Femslash February, Flippant References to Opiates, Mild Sexual Content, Roommates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-10
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2019-03-16 04:03:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13628223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonafake/pseuds/bonafake
Summary: Matt Murdock was a good guy, generally speaking.or,karen page and claire temple get together. the hard way.





	Life Itself

**Author's Note:**

> gahh, okay, so since karen/claire is the real daredevil #otp, i just. i wrote this. because it’s femslash february, right? i think that’s still a thing that people do? anyways. this is something of a karen page love letter, and it’s also something of a slow burn, but either way, i had fun writing it. if you think this needs a rating change, just let me know. thanks!
> 
> notes: karen page/claire temple, karen page & franklin “foggy” nelson, matt murdock & karen page, matt murdock & claire temple, alternate universe - no superheroes, roommates, babysitting, mild sexual content, semi-slow burn, references to opiates, background noise, falling in love.

“We’re never doing this again,” Karen said.

“Agreed,” said Foggy. He checked his watch.

The emergency was quiet at this time of night: there was nothing but the buzz of fluorescent lights shining in their eyes, the occasional scrape of their plastic chairs on the vinyl floor. They sat in silence, faces heated by the glaring lights of the ambulance passing them by.

Foggy checked his watch again.

“I read somewhere that they have vinyl floors in hospitals because they’re easier to wash blood off of,” Karen said. Her hands were clasped together on her lap, and the fingertips were very pink and clean.

“Huh,” said Foggy. He checked his phone, then his watch, and then the  _ People _ magazine on the low table next to him.

Karen brushed hair off of her face with neat fingertips and looked back down at the vinyl floor.

 

-

 

“It wasn't that big of a deal,” Matt said. He was lying flat on the hospital bed, crisp white sheets crumpled around him. His ribs were broken. He had a sizeable laceration over his left eye.

Karen studied him. She looked over at the nurse with a smile drawn tightly across her face. “It was a pretty big deal,” the nurse said. 

“I concur,” Foggy said. “You fell into a dumpster, Matt.”

The nurse raised an eyebrow. “You didn't tell me that.”

“Matt,” Foggy said, reproachfully. “You know better than to lie to - I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

“Claire,” said the nurse. Karen looked down. Her hands were covered with blue nitrile gloves. Karen could see the outline of her bird-delicate bones, the tips of her fingernails through the latex.

“Claire,” said Foggy. “See, you just disappointed both of us.”

“Karen,” Matt moaned. His voice was raspy, as if his ribs had been crushed. Which they had. After he fell into the dumpster. “Defend me from the control freaks.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Don't you think you should suffer the consequences of dumpster diving from the third story of our apartment building?”

“The third story?” Claire asked, turning to Karen. “No one told me that.”

“No one asked,” said Matt.

Claire’s mouth looked pinched. 

 

-

 

Karen checked Matt out at the front desk. “I’m helping to check out Matt Murdock,” she told the nurse on duty.

“Of course,” said the nurse. He stood up and walked away. It wasn’t rude, strictly speaking. It was pointed.

She rolled her eyes. Karen leaned over the plastic divider for the scissors, grabbed them by their orange handles, and clipped off Matt’s plastic hospital bracelet.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Don’t thank me yet,” said Karen, shoving the scissors back into the nurse’s pencil holder. “You’re not getting out of the wheelchair for a month.”

“You know,” said Claire, who was now standing at the desk. Karen started, flailed, and tipped over the mug.

“Oh my gosh,” she said, rushing around to pick up the pencils. “I’m so sorry.”

Claire glanced at her. Her eyelashes were very long. Karen could not tell whether her eyebrows were amused or annoyed. It was probably both: the duality of human nature was not a new concept. Not even for pretty nurses that probably would have been perfectly happy to cut off Matt Murdock’s hospital bracelet and probably also disapproved of people that stole scissors from the nurse’s desk to cut off said hospital bracelet.

Karen looked down and grabbed three number two pencils. Her face was burning.

“Thanks,” said Claire as she handed over the pencils. Their fingers did not touch. Karen tried very hard not to study the chipped green nail polish on Claire’s hands.

“It's nothing,” she said, the pause dragging out between them for too long.

Matt coughed, pointedly. Too pointedly, Karen thought, for someone that had neglected to mention the fact that he’d jumped out of the third story of Karen’s apartment building to any medical personnel. “Did I miss something?”

“No,” they said at the same time, and turned away from each other. Claire set the pencils onto the desk with a resounding thunk.

“Let’s get you checked out,” she said, studiously avoiding eye contact.

 

-

 

Matt Murdock was a good guy, generally speaking.

Generally speaking, Matt Murdock wasn't in a wheelchair with three broken ribs and a sprained ankle. “Nghh,” he said from the bedroom.

Karen and Foggy looked at each other. “We’re not enablers,” said Foggy.

“That’s what you keep saying,” said Karen. “I don't think it means what you think it means.”

“It probably doesn't,” Foggy said, and filled a glass with tap water. His hands knew their way around the kitchen, and his fingernails never had dirt wedged under the tips. Marcie had said something about that. She was very sanitary: now Foggy had clean pale hands that were peeling in the cold New York air. He grabbed the water glass and walked towards Matt’s bedroom.

“We need someone to babysit him during the day,” Karen said, when he’s returned.

“That’s mean,” said Foggy. “But probably, yeah.”

 

-

 

Foggy called the hospital once they’d locked themselves in his office.

He was sweating. There was a sharp, musky smell to him and dark patches on his purple dress shirt. Karen pushed her hair out of her face. A siren shrieked in the distance. “We need someone to watch Matt to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid,” he said, after the perfunctory introductions were out of the way.

Karen couldn't hear anyone on the other line. She turned away from Foggy to shove the unlatched window open. The cold air rushed through her silk shirt. The siren came closer: an ambulance, speeding down the street where Nelson and Murdock, Attorneys at Law paid too much money to have a tiny office on. “Oh,” Foggy said. “Do you think someone got stabbed again?”

“Don't say shit like that,” Karen said.

“C’mon, that’s our street’s thing. Fifth has Tiffany’s, Fourth has bi-weekly muggings, and Third has twice-monthly stabbings.”

“Christ,” said Karen. She sat on top of Foggy’s desk. There was a stack of papers brushing the backs of her legs. She shifted, tugging her skirt further down. The stack of paperwork fell to the ground, fluttering before settling.

Foggy looked down and frowned. “I’ve gone numb.”

“You can't go numb,” Karen said. Her hands made sweaty, clammy marks on Foggy’s second-hand desk.

“I did,” Foggy said.

“Don't,” said Matt, opening the door. Karen jumped off the desk.

“How did you get in?”

Matt said, “I’m a man of many talents.”

There was a mangled bobby pin still slotted into the metal lock.

“You broke it,” Foggy said.

“No,” said Matt. He rolled forward in the wheelchair. Karen watched him, pain contorting his face as he used his good side to prop himself against the desk. “Don't go numb.” He paused to take off his watch and handed it to Karen. “Can I have another Vicodin yet?”

Karen pressed the button on the side of Matt’s watch to hear the time. “No,” she said.

Matt took the watch back. 

 

-

 

Karen stopped in the doorway to turn the lights on and re-tie her shoes. The wood floor of Matt’s apartment was splintered and uneven. His jacket closet was still ajar. “Matt?” she called.

“He’s eating lunch,” said Claire. “I made him.”

“Oh,” said Karen. “Why are you making him?”

“Murdock is a disaster,” she said. “Nelson asked me to.”

“Oh,” said Karen, again. Dumbly. Her mouth felt as though it was only able to make soft vowel sounds. Claire’s dark green shirt was hanging halfway off her shoulder. The fabric looked soft, like flannel. Her bra strap was white elastic. Karen tried to take her coat off, but realized that she had already removed it.

“There are more sandwiches,” Claire said. Karen nodded. She was looking at a place slightly above Claire’s shoulder. The harsh light of the billboard outside the apartment cast strange shadows over the floor.

Karen nodded. “Okay,” she said. She congratulated herself, silently, on making mouth sounds other than soft vowel noises.

“Okay,” Claire echoed.

The sandwiches were excellent.

 

-

 

Matt was on bed rest. Claire had an egg timer next to his nightstand that was set for every six hours, so that they both knew how often he could take his Vicodin. She made sandwiches for lunch, most days, and waited until Karen and Foggy came back in the evenings.

It was a good system. Karen couldn't make eye contact with Claire, but she had studied that square inch of skin with such thoroughness that she was almost certain she could count every pore.

The dishwasher broke and flooded the kitchen sometime during the second half of Matt’s obligatory bed rest.

She helped with the dishes. They were up to their elbows in soapy water. Karen kept sneaking sideways glances at Claire’s arms, slick and covered with Tide dish soap. Claire caught her, once or twice. “I used to get allergic reactions to this soap,” she said.

“Oh?” Karen asked. She had always had a breathy voice, but it was exacerbated whenever she was nervous. Which she was.

Claire huffed out a laugh. “Yeah, we had chore rotations, at home, and I always had this rash because there was never enough time between washing dishes and doing other things.”

“Oh,” Karen said. Great. So she was back to the monosyllabic vowel sounds. She cleared her throat. “That’s unfortunate.”

Claire nodded, scrubbing vigorously at a stainless steel pot. “I stopped reacting, though. Grew out of it.”

Karen looked down at the plate. The opalescent bubbles populating its surface had started to dissolve, making popping noises in the cool air of Matt’s apartment. “I read in a article that people never really grow out of allergies,” she said. “They’re just dormant until-”

“Until what?” Claire asked. She was two, three inches shorter than Karen; her hair was shorter too and curled around her collarbone. It was always very neat and clean.

“Until you die,” Karen said. She rinsed the plate in desalinated water. “Nothing really ends until you die.”

“Well,” said Claire. The word came out as an exhale. Her smile was small. She plunged her hands back into the soapy water. Something scraped the bottom of the steel sink. Her hands came up with forks. She rinsed them, and plunged back into the water. “That’s a pleasant thought.”

“I think so, too,” Karen said, still looking at their submerged hands. The soap was dissolving, the water cloudy around their fingers.

Claire looked at her and reached towards Karen's ear. “Your hair’s everywhere.” She drew her hand away.

“Thanks,” Karen said.

She could hear the soap bubbles popping as they returned to the dishes.

 

-

 

“I’m getting out of the wheelchair,” Matt said as Karen burnt the eggs. It was very intentional, the way she cooked them: they were always firmer than Matt and Foggy deemed appropriate and she only used half the yolks. Her mother had cooked them this way. Her father had eaten them this way, too.

She hummed in response to whatever it was that Matt had said.

“I’m getting out,” Matt repeated. “I’m done with the Vicodin.”

“Just say no,” Karen said, looking up from the pan. The eggs had formed a thick hard shell in the bottom. She would have to soak the pan before scraping them.

Matt had rolled right next to her. They needed to put a bell on him. “I’m getting out of the wheelchair, and I’m getting off of the Vicodin and you won't have any more reasons to flirt with your lady love.”

Karen was so startled she dropped the spatula.

“I’m not-”

“You are.” Matt found his water bottle on the side of his wheelchair and swallowed half of the bottle in one go. “You overcooked the eggs.”

Karen flicked a piece of egg at his ear. It probably wasn't fair, because he couldn't see it to dodge it, and because he was in a wheelchair and couldn't move away from it in general. “Hey,” he said. “You are a terrible roommate.”

She pulled the egg out of his hair. “You’re worse. You’re teasing me.”

“You’re pining.”

“Shut up,” Karen said. The sharp scent of charcoal from the burnt toast still smoking in the toaster filled the room. She opened a window. “Breakfast is ready.”

“You’re a terrible roommate and even worse cook,” Matt said.

“Let me pine in peace,” she said, buttering her block of charcoal salvaged from the toaster.

Matt laughed, not unkindly. They finished breakfast in relative silence.

 

-

 

Foggy and Karen returned from the office with three bags of Chinese food. They hung up their coats and made too much noise as they set down bags and tightened shoelaces. Claire raised an eyebrow.

“We’re celebrating,” Foggy said.

“Why?”

“Matt’s out of the wheelchair.”

“Also off Vicodin,” Matt called from the living room.

“I can leave,” Claire said.

“No,” Karen said, too quickly. “Stay.”

“Okay,” said Claire.

“Okay,” said Karen. “Here, let’s just - we have plates, Foggy.”

“And a table,” said Matt.

Foggy picked up his bag and Karen’s and brought them to the kitchen.

“So,” said Karen, after Foggy had disappeared from the hallway. “Plates.”

“Of course,” Claire said. “Plates.”

The kitchen was empty: Matt and Foggy had appropriated the lo mein and snow pea chicken to sit in the living room with their plastic forks and paper napkins. Karen could hear the buzz of the tv from where she stood. A dog barked from somewhere on their street. 

“We have-” Karen said, opening the second bag, “-fried rice, broccoli beef-”

“Karen,” said Claire.

“-chop suey, spring ro-”

“Karen,” said Claire, again. She looked up. Claire’s eyes glowed in the strange light of the billboard. Nothing looked as strange with her face in the frame.

Karen licked her lips. Claire surged up to kiss them.

 

-

 

Claire’s skin was very soft and clean-smelling. Her neck tasted like salt. The straps of her white bra were tangled with her dark hair and Karen spent too long unhooking everything she could possibly unhook until Claire was almost naked and squirming and very warm under her.

Karen kissed the spaces between and underneath her breasts. “Mouth or hands?”

“Uh,” said Claire.

She tugged down her underwear.

“Oh,” said Claire. They’d ascended to vowel sounds. Karen smiled into her cunt. Her back arched.

“Look, no hands.”

They woke in the night when a siren tore down their street. Claire sat up with a start.

“It’s nothing,” said Karen. She spat out a mouthful of hair. They lay back down on the rumpled sheets. Karen could feel the cold night air from the open window through their blankets. “Hey,” she whispered to Claire as she turned to face her, and pinched her pebbled nipple. “Hands.”

 

-

 

“Hey,” said Claire. Her voice was soft in the morning. There was a line in her cheek from sleeping on the crease of the pillow. The crumpled sheets had stuck to them as they’d slept, and the window was still open. Someone shouted at someone else from an apartment in the complex.

Karen’s mouth was dry and morning-stale. “Hey,” she whispered back. She leaned in to kiss her.

 

-

**Author's Note:**

> comments are loved! thank you for reading!


End file.
